Fear of Flying: Isn't There a Pill for This?

I don't travel as well as I appear to. Really. Terrorists. Turbulence. The entire duration of flight, my head is filled with death or near-death scenarios, and while I try to explain practical measures to myself or recite safety statistics, fear wins, like it did Sunday when the nose of the plane I was traveling in suddenly pitched downward 45 degrees and to the right-- when it wasn't supposed to. I was completely unprepared. Tea flew out the little hole in the safety lid of my styrofoam cup so that even though I hadn't actually urinated in my pants, I looked like I did. I found myself clutching the big, meaty arm of the fellow on my left, who had braced himself against the seat in front of him. Laughing, I let go and said, "I think I need to re-examine my relationship with Jesus."

"Well, I just called on him," said the lady on my right. I think Jesus had a whole line of us to address that night. I kept hoping I was toward the front of it and he was feeling kindly.

Later toward the end of the flight-- a flight that had started poorly due to a pre-take-off roach who had been trying desperately to hide in my purse only to run away and then return to dance across my feet-- I turned to the guy on the left and patted his arm.

"It's almost over. Hopefully the landing is better."
"I have never experienced anything like that," he said referring to the turbulence, "Never."
"At least you didn't scream like a girl."
"But I wanted to. I really wanted to scream like a girl."
I turned to the woman on my right; she was doubled over in laughter. "Took your mind off the roach, didn't it?" I said.

My fear of flying is usually handled with a nice bourbon and coke pre-flight or on the flight, but knowing that the rule one in the air equals two on the ground applies doubly to me, I don't partake of alcohol if I know that I might have to drive myself post-flight. And so this time, I tried soberly and desperately to shove aside my tendency to profile for terrorists and pray for no thunderstorms.  Earlier, I had changed seats with a gentleman so he could sit with his wife in the exit row. I turned to him and said, "I expect a superior performance from you in case of emergency." He thought I was kidding. I kind of wasn't. I had already read my emergency pamphlet and was deliberating, in case of crash landing, whether or not I should lay the 40-50 pound door across the bench row seating or toss it out the plane. And then I thought that everyone would be in the way of laying the door across the seats anyway, and why was that an option. And then I wondered if maneuvering the door would be like picking up my son, as he is about 43 pounds and getting a little tough for me to wrangle. I thought I had escaped the exit row dilemma altogether when I noticed that, having traded seats with the other passenger, I had only moved up one row and was still technically in the exit row. The people beside me-- were they fit enough to handle this? Would they like a bourbon to take the edge off too? Isn't it a bad idea to have a bourbon if you are expected to remove a 40-50 pound piece of equipment and potentially fling it out the doorframe so you can save 100 plus passengers? At one point, I turned to the lady on my right and said I should probably get a prescription for anxiety pills just for flights. I know they exist. I used to take them. Damnitol or whatever.

I sat shaking and shuddering in the airplane that shook and shuddered across air pockets and thermals, and thought that one day my kids would really know how much I loved them to fly two roundtrips in two weeks to spend time with them during their full-summer visit with their dad. The wet pants would have to be proof, pee or no pee. So would the therapy bill incurred from dealing with flight anxiety.

But I did survive. We had a decent landing. My pants were dry by the time I got off the plane. The next day, a co-worker recommended that I book morning flights, as they are usually smoother. I wondered about trains briefly, but they take at least twice as long as driving and then there was the whole Spain thing.

I'm doomed. Just doomed. I should get used to the wet pants.

The Gift of Chimayo

Dramatic puffs and dreamy shapes left sweeping white tails across the upturned bowl of turquoise sky. While my husband and our guide chattered over horseback, my pony and I plodded silently along behind them with deliberate steps through open range and steep arroyo. Against the backdrop of scrub-brush and sand, I let my thoughts drift with the striations of pink, cream, and muted orange that flanked distant cliffs and buttes. We had journeyed from Santa Fe by car in a modern, informal pilgrimage to Chimayo that afternoon, and now found ourselves looking for rabbit tracks and listening to the gentle wuff and snort of working horses. My pony did not know where I had been. If I could have told her, I would have said that I had taken a journey of the heart.

Earlier that week, my husband and I had spent the first day of our journey driving first to one airport, finding no flight out, and then driving four hours to another one—the second leg of that journey I spent tearfully as my husband explained that I often am less forgiving of my daughter than I am of my son. Among the emotional baggage I yearned to shed, thus my desire to see Chimayo, I added to it prayers to relinquish my daughter from any of the leftover hard-heartedness I have carried the last few years.

I went to the chapel at Chimayo only with the expectation that true miracles occur with absolute belief--as a friend later told me, a pilgrimage of within--travel not being necessary. But I knew the very act of my being in this place, this land holding within its history ancient spirits and love of earth, would aid in the transformation I so desired. Later that afternoon, a palm full of Chimayo dirt in my hand, prayers said and tears shed one final time, I leaned against my husband in wordless acknowledgment of his love for me, the importance of this journey, and the knowledge that this moment was a mark of change, a promise to myself and my daughter. The wide-open palm of New Mexico’s earth raised me up. I would give myself to its jewel-toned sky as a newly emerged butterfly.

Later, my husband and I wound our way from Santa Fe to Taos on a road I had not explored in nearly twenty years. I watched the land stretch as dusty scrub-brushed range and followed its embrace to intimate vistas of crowded Indian reservations. Battered cars, pushed in lines against dilapidated adobe houses; lean, brown dogs chained in yards; skeletons of cottonwood trees before first bloom—there is an absence of life, much less prosperity in these parts. Veritable shanties of stucco, adobe, and wood hardly emerge from the sandscape against the majestic and holy mountains. I said to my husband that the most sacred spaces are the most humble ones.

And so I have returned from New Mexico with joy in my heart and the feeling of leaving a cocoon. Change is in the air, as is the birth of spring. With a better job prospect in the works, new friends in the making, and a clean outlook on loving my little girl, I am honoring the gift of Chimayo, sacred sands, and majestic mountains.

Airline Safety of a Different Sort

I fly soon and have been reviewing the updated flight safety checklists because I will be carrying my baggage onboard. I learned I could bring my knitting needles and sewing scissors (metal and under 4” long—yes), but I am sorry to say that I must leave at home my pick axe, swords, bowie knife, and flare gun.


Of all the potentially dangerous items listed, there was nothing to prevent the most common threat to passenger safety: babies. My firstborn was lethal on a flight several years ago. Almost brand new and still squalling, I bundled her and prepared well for travel. Packed in her diaper bag were extra diapers and a change of clothes because good mothers should plan for one poopy blow-out. Chicken Little gave, however, gave me two. One per flight. I changed her on the first leg of the journey in the comfort and convenience of an airport bathroom with a full sink and diaper changing table. Mid-flight on the second plane, however, my husband began to insist that something was rotting in the baby’s pants. We were already seated near another passenger whose bathing rituals apparently did not parallel our own. Swathed head to toe in her dark robes, her skin was protected from view, but the weave of fabric could not withhold the heavy body odor that was making several passengers twist uncomfortably in their seats. Add to that the now rising, putrid scent of a diarrhea diaper, one that, as I quickly learned, failed to hold its contents.

At the rear of the jet on the floor, flight attendants cooed at my baby. They dutifully passed me wet paper towels as I hastily cleaned the results of explosive bowels off her tiny parts. While I at least had the extra diapers, Little One had completely soiled both outfits. I sat back down in my seat with a nearly-naked baby. She was blissfully content, having been relieved of all her baggage—interior and out, but the plane continued to smell terrible. Passengers practically fought to deplane at landing.

This time, I am travelling sans enfants. My children are long past the diaper stage anyway, but I will miss them. I will be safe from the bursting bottoms of my own babies, but I cannot guarantee the absence of other babies on board—a bittersweet and mixed blessing, to be sure.

On the Road Again

On the most recent road trip, I complained to my husband that travel with children would be easier if they were tranquilized. While these journeys are better now than they have been in the past, they still offer challenges.


Being a smart mother, I pack each child an activity bag. The kids delight in drawing pads, stickers, cool twisty crayons, and some kind of toy, but eventually all charm wears off and the miscellaneous items become strewn about the backseat. New urgent needs become voiced-- I’m thirsty, I have to potty, she won’t share… to name a few. The hardest part of the journey, though, is dealing with Tiny Man’s hunger.

“Mom? Mom. Mom! I’m hunnngry,” says Tiny.

“I have chicken sandwiches. Would you like one?”

“No, I would wike chips.”

“You can’t have chips until you eat your sandwich.”

“I don’ wike chicken!” asserts my son.

“Well, I guess you’ll starve then.”

“Mom. I want chips.”

“No. We have sandwiches.”

“I don’ wike chicken. I want chips.”

“You cannot have chips until you eat a sandwich.”

“No.”

“You can starve.”

“Otay. I would wike a chicken sandwich.”

The entire journey is filled with conversations like this. Here's another:

“Mom? Mom. Mom! I’d like a Sprite.”

“You can’t have Sprite. Too much sugar. You can have water.”

“I don’ wike water.”

“That’s too bad, then. I suppose you’ll die of thirst.”

“Okkkaayyy. Can I have some water?”

If the children aren’t making requests, the grown ups are, but ours are of a different variety.

“Please stop kicking the back of my seat.”

“Please share with your brother.”

“Please quit policing your brother.”

“Please quit poking your sister.”

“Don’t play with that.”

“Please quit hogging the entire seat.”

“Where is your activity bag? Why don’t you draw a picture?”

To add to all this nagging and chaos, are the needs of my husband. He has asked that my son not make pow-pow gun noises which can be distracting. (Note to self: duct tape son’s mouth.) But, this past week he gave me the crowning glory of all requests; he asked me to invent a snack for the children that will not drip, crumb, or otherwise soil the backseat. I ignored that considering our obvious alternative is simply to tie or tape the children to the roof of the car for the duration of these travels.

Perhaps the monthly road trip is some kind of twisted bonding experience that we can all laugh about later, but these days it is a massive test in patience. I used to have a DVD player in the car, which helped entertain the young folk and distract them from hunger (road trip hunger is often really boredom in disguise). It broke though, and the only way to get one safely mounted anywhere in the kind of vehicles we have is with generous amounts of duct tape. If my husband doesn’t want crumbs on his cloth seats, he sure isn’t going to want tape residue on his center console or seat backs. Of course duct tape residue on the console is a far pleasurable alternative to the DFACS call I would get for duct taping the children to the car roof. With the next road trip three weeks away, looks like I might have to reconsider.

Travelling with Children

I spend huge amounts of time on the road with small children. Among the elements of our established travel routine, such as well-stocked activity bags for each child and pre-packed snacks with water bottles, I can also count on the youngest to create a distraction about one hour into the trip and again less than an hour from the destination.


Tiny Man burst into tears yesterday, going from whine to 60 in one second flat.

“Someone is tickling my back,” he sobbed. No one was tickling his back. His sister sat curled up on the opposite end of the rear seat with a book. She had not moved. His crying grew louder. I told him to hang on and we would pull over when there was a safe place. We were cruising a country road with no real shoulder above the ditch that separated asphalt from cotton fields and tobacco crops. His crying persisted among complaints of an apparently acute itch until we arrived in a one-stoplight town. I turned off the small highway and parked beside rows of desolate looking brick store fronts. Grass grew in the cracks of the sidewalk. One lone Mexican eyed my truck and disappeared into the dark doorway of a tienda behind me. I could hear the theme of “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly” playing in my head. Tiny Man’s howling reduced to breath sucking sobs and tears ran down his cheeks. I unhooked his seat belt, checked his back, rubbed it, and told him he was fine.

Crawling back into the driver seat, I heard the call of the wild from the backseat again.

“I’m hungry,” said my daughter.

Let’s just say I am sometimes not the most patient person.

“For crying out loud,” I exclaimed. I was eager to escape this town. “We just ate!”

“We did?” she asked.

“I hungry, too,” insisted Tiny.

Yes, we had eaten a lovely brunch at a nice restaurant with my oldest step-daughter in her college town. I had enjoyed crabcakes with eggs hollandaise. It was an exceptional meal, and my son, who normally loves crab and likes just a bit of spicy on his plate, had turned his nose up mid-way through dining.

Sundays in a small town dominated with what looks like weapon-packing Mexicans really don’t leave a lot of snack options. Even the Exxon station a block away looked menacing.

“You are going to have to cope,” I growled. The truck kicked into gear and we headed to the bigger highway where commercial offerings seemed a little less…frontier. Eventually, children were fed, and then a third stop was made--this time to remove the offending shirt from Tiny’s back, rub lotion on his skin, and button a softer one back on him. I was not very friendly about this, to be honest. A fourth stop ensured a refueling of the gasoline tank and the emptying of bladders. We were somehow, still close to the initial schedule.

We were doing ok, aside from occasional death threats to restore peace and quiet, when a new, urgent call came from the back seat.

“I has to peeeeeeeeeee.” There were 38 miles left to travel, making it our fifth stop in four and half hours of drive-time, we had missed the rest area my husband had told me (via message) to seek, and I was tired of gross bathrooms. We found a gas station, pulled to the side of it where a guard rail bordered the parking lot, and I let Tiny Man urinate onto the grass on the other side. We both leaned over the rail to watch the stream and make sure we did not get splashed.

When he was done, he pulled up his pants, and I cuddled him then tossed him up and down for giggles. This is just life with kids, I thought.

“You’re a good mommy,” he said. “I know this.”

I sure hope so. One more roadtrip down, countless more to go. I think we can make it.